


where is paradise? somewhere between the ridges of his spine and the dip of my collarbone

by glassbones



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A Single Spone, Bones McCoy Is A Real Damn Gentleman 22k63, Boys In Love, Buckle The Fuck In My Dudes, Feelings: Catch Them All, M/M, Richard Siken Bingo Card, SADBOYS 2263, Saccharine Sweet Ain't Got Nothing On This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones/pseuds/glassbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goddammit, if this is how Jim feels like, there is one thing he and Spock have done right: there is such an outpouring of love Len has to close his eyes against the glare, Jim bright like the sun around which they revolve. </p><p>a gratuitious semi-obscure mcspirk soft lovin' with manic dream boy undertones. don't look at me</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title ripped straight from lisa iry's poem of the same name; sorry, sorry

Words always flowed out freely from Jim; came unbidden as they come now, as he grinds up against Spock, up and against and back and down; the tide and the shore, his sweet nothings the murmur of the waves against Spock's muted breaths. Leonard stays close as he's always done; watching, not quite touching, the dark pleasure intense in his eyes as he watches Jim take Spock's fingers into his mouth, as if there is something other to be perceived: a phenomenon, a curiosity. As he's always done, he guides Jim's hands, moves until he's pressed close behind him, head on Jim's shoulder. They both watch intently as Spock's eyes glass over. He lets out a sigh, or a breath, or presses his eyes closed in a way that speaks of years of discipline and restraint being undone by the deftness of Jim's tongue, the cleverness of his fingers. Leonard takes Spock by the other hand, pushes it to rest against Jim's heart; they all know he isn't good with words but there's only so much words can say, and the relief that comes from the warmth of Jim's body, the beating of his heart, may be a new language just for Leonard and Spock to share, so often they require it. Get down on your knees, open your mouth, take communion; the quiet and dark between the sheets their own baptism, tears and harsh words and collateral damage hidden where Jim can't see.

There is a relief, a pleasure to be had from simply knowing: this here, this thing that the three of them made, exists, new and strange and fragile as Spock carefully throws his head back, caught in a grin or a cry as Leonard leans down to kiss him on the mouth; a gentle comfort that is meant to be freely given.

This streams straight to the bone, makes it hard to think with the sheer rawness of it; if Jim is sunlight, Spock and Leonard are specks of light illuminated by his beams; a small room, a water stain on the ceiling, a lungful of glass or a handful of red sand as it falls away from your fist, a fight that you picked or a field of wheat or a hospital bed morning, stark-white, reflected and resonated until you wake up with your throat screamed sore. Behind the glass, helpless or unable to help, or maybe you aren't, maybe you have a second chance, or a third, close your eyes when your heart tries to push out of your chest, try to remember, against the numb and the dark and the swamp water pressing cold where you can't see, muddy river banks slick as you fall down; try to remember: sunlight, specks of dust, soft murmurs. This streams straight to the bone, close your eyes, get down on your knees.


	2. Chapter 2

Neat in the hole he carved himself into, there is desert in his body and hot wind in his breath: strain against your own bones but you still can't get it out, a reminder of your loss pressed deep down into your body by a mother's hand, silk and chestnut hair and a cool drink of water, always there even when you forget that she is.

Spock tried to shape himself into the man he would tolerate himself to be; cut the unnecessary parts out, love and her love and loved ones pushed away, pushed down deep, sand getting into the bird hollow of his bones, weighs him down every step. He tried, but it did not work; but he couldn't get all the sand out, and Nyota's hair was soft against his cheek as she cried for him, stand in his place, take his sorrow, grief like an open mouth, teeth jagged sharp. So he wears his grief like a cloak or a cape, _do you see me_ , _do you see what they did to me_ , face unmoving and statuesque til he can't see through his own facade; _I am sorry_ , _I cannot_ , _take your spare toothbrush take your clothes take the pillow that still smells like you_ , 0300 and he still can't sleep.

The desert is red like human blood is red, like his mother's blood was red, past tense, there is nobody to hold his hand when he cries himself to sleep, helpless against the loss and it's crushing him like glass crushes under a boot; fractures run down his surface, and the emotion he isn't supposed to feel rages heavy inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops my hand slipped :) i promise he won't be as sad in the next chapter maybe probably


	3. Chapter 3

"You alright, darling?" he asks Jim, touching reverently down his body, the proximity between the three of them still a marvel after all this time. Spock sits close by, perched against the headboard; ever an observer but Jim's hand is resting lightly in his, and his cheeks colour green even as Jim's breathing grows more labored.

"Yeah," his eyes are bright with tears, baby blue, deep end of the pool, chlorine and salt and Len is drowning but only a little. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just," it's unlike Jim to lose his eloquence but there's something in his expression that prevents Len from worrying.

"Leonard, if you will let me," Spock speaks up suddenly, hand outstretched, and Len is a little lost even as he says yes, and then he's submerged. _Touch telepathy_ , he belatedly thinks, everything in glorious technicolor. Goddammit, if this is how Jim feels like, there is one thing he and Spock have done right: there is such an outpouring of love Len has to close his eyes against the glare, Jim bright like the sun around which they revolve. Through Jim, he feels cherished and loved - straightforwardly, warmth and acceptance, a sparrow held in his hands; baby blue, deep end of the pool, Len drowning in the emotion.

"Thank you," he rasps, has to bring Spock's hand to his mouth, kiss it like a belle's. He hopes it's enough; it is if Spock's eyes are anything to judge by, hazel and warm, unwavering.

There's always a siren singing Jim to shipwreck, but in this stillness, suspended in time, he seems content for the first time in longer than Len cares to remember, _this_ between them suddenly enough. Len touches him again, and again - he's got hands of a healer but this touch won't mend (but won't break, either), - never seems to get quite enough, hungry for something he can't name. Jim smiles at him, radiant, blinding, and Len allows himself to let go as he kisses Jim's smile from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops My Hand Slipped :)  
> there's a radiohead reference maybe at some point? what? i should stop churning these out before something goes terribly wrong and they're all dead or something


	4. Chapter 4

Spit-slick, they move against each other, hands holding too tight, like the other may slip away, or too gentle, like an heirloom china cup, breaks when you forget, shards on the wooden floor, brittle, come together again when you're not looking.

The air is thick with the words unsaid, promises unbroken as long as they stay between them in this room, in this bed, pressed silently against the other's lips. _Now you see me_ , pretty in the half-light, take off his shirt as Leonard puts his hand on his abdomen; _now you don't_ , transposed, push his hand deep in until he finds something valuable in the wet. _Now you don't_ , _now you don't_ , now you can't struggle against the stream, or stop; roll with the punch, go with the momentum, smile with a strange sadness just in the corner of your mouth, kisses iron and salt and sorrow. _Now you don't_ , _now you don't_ , now you don't know anymore, don't have anything to be known to you. Hold him down til the bone splits, suck the marrow dry.

There is an empty space in Spock's chest, hole like an open mouth (teeth jagged sharp). Now you don't.

Brick-red, like the desert dust: Spock bites down on Leonard's lips until he tastes iron and salt, hold him down, press close, and Leonard is pliant underneath him like wet clay is pliant, open and waiting, calmly, to be shaped by Spock's shaking hands. Full to the brim with the emotion he's afraid to name, overflows when he forgets, spills as his fingers trace the edge of Leonard's jaw. His eyes are warm, a well to drink from (central heterochromia is an eye condition where there are two colors in the same iris; the pupillary zone of the iris is a different color (#CBA135, Satin Sheen Gold) than the ciliary zone (#679267, Russian Green), the true iris color being the outer color), and Spock grows to them like a thirsty man grows to the promise of a glass of water.

Hold him down, press close; the cradle of Leonard's hips feels a little like a home Spock could live in, a straw house or a stick house; his eyes fall shut as he moves in him, transposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most fun part was spending a good ten minutes looking intently into karl urban's eyes and picking colors! he actually has central heterochromia. the more you know. also, satin sheet gold is the color of kirk's uniform. strangely fitting


	5. Chapter 5

Brick-red the blood on Jim's knuckles, each bruise a brick to build their house from: a straw house, a stick house, a brick house, one for each. Brick-red dripping down, hold your breath as it hits. There is a sorrow to be desired, in the pitch-dark hold their hands as they struggle to breathe; over soon, it's over soon, your teeth bare like a cemetery, stark against your open mouth (your teeth, jagged sharp). And then it isn't, over soon, hold your breath, close your eyes against the familiar thrill, heart beating, blood pulsing warm through your body, brick-red dripping down.

A straw house, and a stick house: straw about to burn, straw on fire, ashes in your mouth as you stand helpless beside the fire. Lungs hollowed out, crunch down on crushed ice like glass. Glass bones, glass heart, see-through as the blood pumps out watch Jim bleed out helpless.

A straw house, and a stick house, and a brick house: not one stone atop another will stand. Hide him in your hand, close your hand gently like around a flower or a sparrow; you don't hear the hollow bird bones crunch. A carcrash or a shipwreck or an aviation accident, jump out before the fall, strangely weightless, but the impact still jars. Nothing without his ghost within, a father's son: there's the good hand, there's the bad hand, you can't pick which hits first.

The stick house is words captive in thought, is the wave as it hits, or the ashes in your mouth as you sit beside the hospital bed, suspended. The stick house is how your tongue trips against the truth of the familiar words _(the sign for "love" is made by crossing both hands over the middle of your chest)_. There's no shiver or shout with Jim pressed between the two of them: he's a fever they're learning to live with, press their lips against his throat just to feel his pulse, hold him down as they pour salt on his wounds. Til the bone splits, til the skull cracks with the swell of thought: a straw house, a stick house, a brick house; one for each.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small A/N: not having an expected chapter count is very deliberate on my part because this way there's no Expectation and my shitty brain doesn't get scared and can keep churning out chapter after chapter. there's definitely more coming maybe probably

**Author's Note:**

> feedback/critique/muffled screaming is welcome as always; english is not my native language so if you happen to notice any mistake or inaccuracy, please PLEASE let me know


End file.
